


Tears on the Paper

by deduceme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deduceme/pseuds/deduceme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is horrified and pained by the suicide of his best friend. He never accepts the death and lives in the shell of the person he used to be. After five months suffering from the suicide of Sherlock Holmes, John incounters Irene Adler, who suspects that Sherlock isn't dead at all, but faked his death like she did twice. She volunteers to help John find Sherlock. What follows is something that may change John's and Sherlock's relationship forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlocks's death, John has trouble adjusting to 'normal' life. His life has completely changed since, and there seems to be no end to the grief.

_You told me once,_

_That you weren’t a hero._

_There were times that I didn’t think you were human,_

_But let me tell you this._

_You were,_

_The best man,_

_That I’ve ever known._

_…_

_And just one more thing,_

_one more miracle, Sherlock_

_Don’t_

_Be_

_Dead._

   Everything is grey. The sheets, the shirts. The coffee. The food. It all tastes the same. It all looks the same. It all feels the same.

_Goodbye John,_

    It’s just grey and dead. I can’t feel anymore. Everything is flat and, as Sherlock would say, boring. Not without Sherlock. He gave my life ups and downs. He gave me so much.

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

   I lay in bed. Un-moving, probably because my damn leg is acting up. I just noticed it a while back. Only two weeks after he was gone, it began to hurt again. I never noticed much. I slept a lot.

_Will you do this for me?_

  I had so many nightmares. I woke up in a sweat. The empty feeling of Harry’s spare room made my chest feel like it was being scooped up and thrown away. It hurt.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me._

  I finally force myself out of bed, to distract myself from the falling image of Sherlock’s flailing body imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. Harry had cleaned up her act for me and had started making me breakfast in the mornings. I don’t touch it. I slump down into my chair and stare blankly at the walls. The smell of cheap coffee reaches my nose. I look down at the cup and have a stare down with the grayish-brown liquid.

_Nobody could be that clever._

   ‘You could,’ I mutter to my coffee. It doesn’t answer. I place my chin into my hands. I let my back slouch. He’s dead. He’s gone. It’s the first time that it hits me. I had always made excuses, before. I thought he had faked it. Made it up. That he would stroll into my room and tell me that there was a murder down town, and that we should hurry there. But something in my brain clicked and it made my whole body rock. My face rumples up into my hands and I let the first sob rack my body. My lungs struggle to keep up with the pace of my crying. I let out a groan. ‘Oh god, no, no, no,’ I moan. I rock back and forth in my chair.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

   I let the sobs rack my body. I can hear Harry come to my door. She stands at the door for a while before she comes in. She walks slowly towards me. I attempt to wipe the tears off my reddened face, but she catches my hand before I can.

   ‘Hush, its alright,’ she says quietly. She had never met Sherlock, but the way her face looked made me think that the stories I told her made her fond of Sherlock. She cradled me, in her warm and strong arms. I sobbed for hours on end, not holding back the lump of tears in my throat.

_O_ _k look up, I’m on the rooftop._

_Oh God._

_I…I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this._

  Hours pass. Harry leaves after a while, making sure that I’m comfortably tucked into my bed. I shiver in the cold sheets. I fall back into my grey stupor.

_He’s my friend. He’s my friend… Please… Please let me just… Jesus. No. God, no._

   ~~

   Two more months pass. The pain hasn’t disappeared, I doubt it ever will. Today is the day. I have been putting it off for quite some time, but according to my therapist I really need to continue my life. Without Sherlock. I put all my grey clothing in my grey bag. I kiss Harry on the cheek. A taxi is already outside, waiting for me. ‘221B Baker Street,’ I manage to choke out. I let my mind wander as the cars pass by. The buildings all look so lonely and boring, now, without Sherlock. Sherlock helped me see the battlefield of London.

 _Take my hand_.

   ‘Sir?’ I look up and nod. I force myself out of the cab and walk up the steps to 221B. My hands are shaking uncontrollably. My mind races and I reach my hand towards the door.

_Mr. Holmes,_

_Sherlock, please_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please! I would love to hear some critism, i really want to hear some ideas as well!


	2. The Boxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves back into the flat. He looks through some of Sherlocks old things and ponders the importance of these objects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this is way to short for my liking. Critism is appreciated!

The door creaked open and let light flood onto the floor of the front foyer.

  ‘ John?’ Mrs. Hudson calls out. Her voice floods my head and releases all the memories. I struggle to stand up. The familiar musty smell of the flat lingers in my nose. I clear my throat and straighten my back.

  ‘Mrs. Hudson!’ I yell back.  I take the stairs one at a time and look up. The flat. Not a thing has moved since. The door is open as usual and I peer into the sunny and very dusty room. It’s peaceful and quiet. The dust motes dance in the air, swirling around gracefully.  I let a tear slide slowly down my cheek. I set my bag down with a clunk My shoulders sag and I feel a sense of peace. This is home.

   ‘Hullo,’ Mrs. Hudson enters the room, ‘I’ve missed you terribly, you know,’ she scolds me. I take two steps towards her and wrap her in her arms. I can feel her body shaking as she begins to sob quietly. I rub her back uncomfortably; I hadn’t been expecting her to cry at the sight of me. 

   ‘It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson,’ I mutter,

   ‘I m-missed you so much,’ she stutters into my jacket. I tense up at the words. I never thought about Mrs. Hudson when I was at Harry’s. My thoughts were completely and utterly focused on wallowing in my own misery. A wave of guilt washes over me.

   ‘Me too, I miss you,’ I hug her closer and inhale the scent of her. I ease myself out the embrace and take a better look at  the flat.

  ‘Haven’t had time to clean?’ I inquire jokingly.

  ‘ Not your housekeeper,’ Mrs. Hudson smiles through her tears.'How are you, John?' she looks kindly up at my face, with the tears still shinning in her eyes.

   'I'm ok, I'm still hurt, you know. I keep having these flashback as well, uhm, about, Sher-him.'

  

_That... was amazing._

_You think so?_

  _Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary._

  _That's not what people normally say._

_What do people normally say?_

_"Piss off"_

_'_ Oh, dear,' Mrs. Hudson commented quietly,'what are these flashbacks about?'

   'Mainly what he said to me,' I say, trying to hold back the wave of tears that threaten to overwhelm me. Mrs. Hudson looks uncomfortable and looks around hurriedly.

   ‘I was thinking… that we should clean up a bit, now don’t you think?’she asks me. I'm eager for a distraction. This place has so many memories, memories that stab me over and over. I nod hurriedly.

  ‘ Shall we start with those boxes?’ Mrs. Hudson indicates towards the loads of boxes containing things from Sherlock’s experiments. I choke back the urge to start crying again. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. I grab the top box and set it down on the desk. I heave a sigh and rub my face, feeling the two-day stubble. First thing in the box is a stack of papers, all neatly clipped together. The paper is covered in scribbles, obviously Sherlock had been spending lots of time on this work. I look at the title. I take in a deep breath.

**The Effects of Living with a Loved One**

Test Subject: Sherlock Holmes

Hypotheses: I have been suffering from dependence on drugs and depression for a matter of years. I have recently met a new flat mate who I care for dearly. I believe that the quality of life improves once you are in the presence of a loved one. I believe that the benefits are not only psychological but also physical.

**Month 1:**

Statistics before moving in:

I have simply looked at general health statistics.

Blood Pressure: 100/60

Weight: 130 pounds

Heavy dependence on drugs

Constantly stressed. Staying up all night

The rest of the booklet continues on much of the same for about 10 pages. There are graphs showing the gradual progression of Sherlock’s health.

At the end of the booklet, there’s a conclusion. My heart skips a beat. What did he write? Was any of it about me? I was of course, the ‘loved one’. But would Sherlock include emotions into a scientific report? My hands shook slightly as I let my eyes slide down the page.

In conclusion:

Not only has my health and quality of life improved, I have found that caring for someone is very rewarding and made me so much happier. Some of the old habits of both my flat mate and me disappeared over time, including my flat mates eating disorder and my dependence on drugs. I feel much more like a whole. I believe that living with a loved one dramatically improves ones quality of life. Stress is reduce and often enough, the amount of sleep is increased.

   On the side of the paper, i notice a bunch of dark scribbles. I can barely make it out, i think its says: Pointless research, rubbish! Underneath those dark lines, it says: I love him? My heart skips a beat, and I squint at the question mark. Why? Of course, Sherlock is new to emotions, since he was obviously drugged up for most of his life. My mind drifted slightly.

    _This is my friend, John Watson._

_Colleague_

  Sherlock had noticed how I barely ate when we first met. Then again how had I thought that he hadn’t noticed. It was Sherlock!  But the fact that I had dramatically changed his life for the better warmed me up ever so slightly. I let a small smile cross my face for an instant. I look up at Mrs. Hudson, who is already on the third box of stuff.

  ‘Shit, sorry’ I apologize quickly. I jump up from my crouched stance and take a look inside the box. This one isn’t filled with scientific stuff. Just random crap. My heart sinks. I pick up a broken IPhone, probably from a victim from a murder.

   ‘Just old shit from old cases,’ I mutter. I examine a toy horse, with a big grin on its face. Stupid. Nothing of importance to Sherlock. A smashed teacup. A small grey ball. Some pages of a newspaper.

   ‘We can toss it all out,’ I say quietly.

   _Bored. Bored, BORED._

These damn flashbacks need to stop for crying out loud.


	3. The Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to regain hope in Sherlock Holmes after an incounter with Irene Adler

The boxes are empty and all the papers are filed away. I look at the living room. It seems lost without it’s usual clutter. I sit down on my chair and rest me head in my left hand. I breathe a sigh and ponder. My thoughts drift from sarh, to Sherlock, to Molly, to a case about a dead husband who turned up two doors down the street.

    Suddenly, I hear a creak above me. I look at my watch, glowing in the darkened room. 4 AM. My whole body freezes.

  All the sleep leaves my core. I sit up straight and look up above me. Another creak. My first thought was Moriarti. I get up carefully and quietly. The carpet cushions the noises from my steps and I let myself run up the stairs. The door to Sherlock’s room is ajar. I see the shadow of curly dark hair, striking against the pale skin. My knees start to tremble.

   ‘Sherlock?’ I whisper, ‘Sherlock, is that you?’ The figure disappears farther into the room. I creep slowly to the door. I place my hand delicately against the wood, wood that I haven’t touched in a long, long time. The door opens without any noise. The light from the hall way helps me search for the figure.

   ‘He’s not dead,’ a feminine voice says, a voice that I know so well, it’s so distinct.

   ‘Mrs. Adler?’

   ‘Yes, my dear,’ she emerges from the darkest corner. I change my position to face her directly. I know what she can do. Her face is smiling. Her cheebones protrude slightly, giving her a very sharp face. Her hair in a bun, quick and messy. She had left wherever she was in a hurry.

   'You're dead,' I state.

   'True. I'm very good at dissapearing. And I know a real death from a fake one,' she smirks a bit. 'He's not dead.'

   ‘Who’s not dead?’ I already know who she’s going to say, but I can’t say his name. A feeling of hurtwashes over me. How could Irene know that Sherlock wasn't dead and I couldn't even catch on after 5 months.

   ‘Sherlock, of course. I could tell right away,’ she tilts her head to the side. She’s just faking this, I know. It’s a joke.

   ‘I’ll help you, in exchange for a couple day here. I’m in hiding right now, and I could use some protection.’ Obvious. Irene had always been on the run. She always had one party or another after her because of the information that she kept on her camera phone. I assume that she aquired another phone along the way.

   ‘Why do you think he’s not dead? I saw him jump,’ I growl at her.

   ‘Molly identified the body, first clue. Secondly, did you ever see Sherlock _land._ No, of course not! You just assumed that he landed and died. And _who was_ that man who hit you? Why didn’t he just move over a tiny bit? And why did all those people hold you back from Sherlock’s body? Even the people who didn’t work at St. Barts did!

   ‘ Sherlock, spend the last day of his life with three people. Jim, you and Molly. Molly identified the body! She could help Sherlock _be dead._ That old mosquito bite that you had on your right arm wasn’t a mosquito bit, no, it’s a puncture wound where that cyclist injected you with my very own chemical that I used on Sherlock. And every single one of those witnesses down there on the street were there for Sherlock, because they owed him. There. That’s my theory.’ She crossed her arms. She had spoken quickly, at the same pace as Sherlock would when he made a deduction.

  ‘I’m too tired for this. Here, just sleep in Sherlock’s bed,’ I turn away.

   ‘That’s it?’ Irene smirks, ‘I thought I might have to knock you out or something,’ I chuckle.

   ‘Amazing what being woken up at 4 in the bloody morning will do to a man,’ Irene laughs lightly.

   ‘See you in the morning,’

  I think of when our case with Irene started.

_Buckinham Place… What are we doing here Sherlock? Seriously, What?_

_I don’t know._

_Here to see the Queen?_

I remember Mycroft walking in at that very moment.

_Oh, apparently yes._

Mycroft wasn’t impressed at all. He attempted to look as dignified as possible.

_Just once, can you two behave like grown ups?_

_We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants so I wouldn’t hold onto much hope._

   That morning was my favorite memory with Sherlock Holmes. There was so much laughing, and for once, I felt like I understood Sherlock one hundred percent. The giggling made my stomach hurt and it was nearly impossible to get rid of the giant smile on my face. And I looked beside me to the exact same face. The same beautiful face that was still alive.

  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man these sure are short! Hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> I know its not done im so sorry! Its also a little short for my liking but really wanted to get the first chapter out there. I would love if you guys could help me with my writing! All comments are apreciated and all corrections as well.  
> P.S Im hoping to add some Johlock stuff at the end of this story, just you wait.


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